


what happens when we reach the sun

by MaySparrow



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Anxiety, Depression, Drabble Collection, Gen, Mentions of Genocide Route, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, crossposted from tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaySparrow/pseuds/MaySparrow
Summary: A series of one-shot request pieces, crossposted from tumblr. Mostly post-pacifist route.Most recent posting summary;"Toriel makes a mistake, and her child does a violence. Post-pacifist."





	1. infinity and beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hello! This is my first post on AO3! I made this account for another fandom, the fic of which is not complete yet so I'm not posting it yet, but I had a lot of UT drabbles sitting on my tumblr account so I figured I would post them here. I don't have too much to say outside of I'm excited to post these even if nobody sees them, but if you DO see them, it's A-okay to send me requests via comments! If you'd like to see my writing on tumblr, you can find my writing tag [here](http://queenburd.tumblr.com/tagged/may-writes)!
> 
> I talk about UT on my blog a lot--you can find my thoughts on it [here](http://queenburd.tumblr.com/tagged/May-talks-about-undertale).

**Prompt: Sans + UFO**

* * *

Okay, so, they’re on the surface. Yay, yippee, and this won’t last says the niggling little voice in his skull that is convinced it’s felt this before, this overwhelming sense of dejavu that he can’t pin and it’s so damn overwhelming sometimes but he can’t pin it down and _stop it_  so what’s the point? There is _nothing_ he can do about this feeling and this sense of dread.

So he doesn’t do anything. He stays in his room and sneaks out at night to eat and scrolls on the internet for hours, and what the hell happened to the enthusiasm that was in his chest when he saw _real stars_ the first time? (what was the first time when was the first time shut _up_ ). Where’s it gone? Where the hell are his emotions?

He’s so damn tired all the time, he’s so wait _what what what is THAT_

His cell chimes with Frisk’s text tone (“ _If I could begin to be-”_ ) literal seconds after he sees it and if he unlocked his cell phone he would see the message but his jaw is too busy trying to disconnect from his face.

_* New planet for life sans!!!!! New planet!!!!_

Proxima Centauri’s planet can hold water. It’s in the habitable zone, and it’s _so damn close_ and when his jaw is done with its disappearing act it starts to hurt from how wide his smile is. He takes all of a minute to just _roll around in his mess of a bed_ in enthusiasm and energy. This is _new_. This is new and real and he grabs his phone and shoots back to the kid–

_come over_

_we’re making a rocket ship_

_a-proxima destination: s p a c e_


	2. burn baby burn

**Prompt: Papyton and s'mores**

* * *

 

The metal box wheels itself across the dirt and gross to the fire, hoisting the skewers and marshmallows under one arm. “Alphys, dear,” he says, with only the _slightest_ inflection of a whine, “Are you _certain_ you didn’t bring my charger along? Legs would make this _much_ easier, you know.”

Alphys is distracted by the way Undyne is scratching the back of her neck, comfortable in her girlfriend’s lap. “Hm? Nope, no, a-absolutely sure. It’s not there. W-We _both_ looked, M-Mettaton.”

Mettaton heaves a heavy sigh, somehow, in his boxlike form. Well, mostly he flexes forward and back in the pretense of a sigh, and runs the dramatic_sighno2.mp3 audio file. Yeah, that’s the right one. Undyne rolls her single eye at him and then returns her attention to the sleepy, giggling lizard in her lap.

“Mettaton! I made a spot for you!” Papyrus is patting the space on the log he’s resting on, and the robot wheels his way over, dropping his supplies into Papyrus’s lap before leaning the edge of his boxy form onto the log.

“Thank you darling, you’re always thinking of me,” he says, sultry and content as Papyrus tugs open the bag and plays with a marshmallow with a wide smile.

“Of course I am! The great Papyrus thinks of everyone! Isn’t that right Undyne?”

“Mhm,” she says distractedly across the fire. Papyrus pays her no mind, sticking his marshmallow onto a skewer and offering it to Mettaton to roast over the fire. The robot pretends to forget he has no mouth, and roasts it anyway.

The marshmallow catches fire. For some reason, it fills him with delight. Look okay he was designed to entertain but also to murder and he’s from _Hotland_ , heat and fire and lava have always been a wondrous sight. 

“Mettaton!” comes Papyrus’s concerned voice. He pulls the skewer away from the robot to blow out the flame. “You could hurt someone, or start a forest fire! We have to be like the bear, remember? Only _we_ can prevent forest fires!”

“Pap oh my god,” comes the mumble from Undyne’s direction. “We’re usually the ones starting the fires.” 

“Yes, but here on the surface, things are very different!”

“I’m sorry darling,” Mettaton replies reproachfully, looking at the black droopy thing at the end of the stick. “Here, give me another, and I won’t let it burn.”

Papyrus relents, and from somewhere on his other side, a very sleepy voice says in a sing-song voice, “ _disco inferno, yeeeeah.”_

“Stop that, Sans.”

“ _Don’t stop me now, cos I’m havin’ a good time, havin’ a good time–”_

_“_ Why am I related to such a dork of a brother?!”

“Simple,” says Mettaton, with the sly smile in his voice. “You’re the adorable one.”

Papyrus gets flustered fast. It’s actually really cute, especially with how the firelight accentuates his skull. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well,” Mettaton says in his _isn’t it obvious_ voice, “If he’s a dork, and you’re adorable, then–”

“Together we’re _adorkable_!” exclaims Sans, suddenly bolting up to grin widely at Mettaton. 

Papyrus’s face shifts from flustered to outraged. “ _Mettaton_!”

He shoots his biggest fans a double pistol and a metaphorical wink. “I’ll be here all night, loves.”

At the end of his skewer, the marshmallow is on fire again.


	3. test subject 99999

**Prompt: Sans and Alphys play Portal**

* * *

 

“Look Sans, puzzles!” Papyrus had said when he had thrust the game at Sans enthusiastically, several months ago. They’d gotten it for the computer because they still didn’t have a console yet ( “how do you know which one to get, human?”) and Papyrus manages to get to the Core Transfer before the scene distresses him a bit too much and he has to take pause.

Later he complains to Sans that Wheatley could be a better person, and the shift in character was completely unpredictable and weird, and okay, really, why did he just shove me down a pit? “I’ll pick it up again later,” he says. “I mean, there’s still so much of it left! I’m sure we can fix things with him. He’s our friend! The game wouldn’t leave that so unresolved!”

Sans starts a new game one evening and finishes it in approximately 5 or 6 hours, mostly due to the amount of time spent just _looking_ at everything, finding the secrets, the paintings, the babbling. It strikes a small chord in him that he compartmentalizes for later, and when he finishes the game, he wants to pat Papyrus on the shoulder and shake his head sadly.

Later, he mentions it to Alphys over Papyrus’s and Undyne’s pasta day (they do this every other week or so, and have managed to keep the stove from lighting on fire the past 2 tries–progress!) and she stutters enthusiastically, eyes lighting up. “Th-There’s still so much more content th-though! It’s got m-multiplayer and chamber making a-and and and–”

Sans’s grin is a near permanent one, but the way he lowers his supraorbital ridge has Alphys trailing off, and grinning nervously, and late into the evening on Saturday she’s stuttering softly in the earpiece as his blue little ball of a bot waves at her figure, attempting rock paper scissors, hugging her tightly. Her orange eyes bot has a tiny companion cube flag. It’s cute.

They make it a thing–it’s easier for her to play online than it is for them to try to meet up, and the text option is a comfort for her voice. Some days, neither of them talk into the earpiece–the only sound next to GLaDoS’s voice is the tiny tap of keys.

When she shows him the community chambers, they start exchanging designs and practice testing each other’s. They offer suggestions, critiques. It feels vaguely familiar, but mostly pleasant.

Some evenings, he wakes up from 10 minute naps to cell phone pings about the Portal lore, and the artistic doctor locked away in the facility, deeply asleep. It resonates.


	4. baking for dummies

**Prompt: Soriel baking, ft Papyrus and Frisk**

* * *

 

“It’s a _pie_ ,” Toriel tells him with a smile. “It’s meant to be sweet.”

Papyrus is frowning, attempting to discern the difference between a quiche and a pie yet again, and Sans watches him give up. Instead, he laces his fingers through Frisk’s thick bob of hair and hisses to them, “They’re the same thing, aren’t they.”

Frisk giggles, shakes their head, and pulls him to the sink to wash his hands. Sans hipchecks the child lightly as they encroach his space, where he’s flicking the last of the water drops into the sink. They hipcheck him back, and he hops off his step stool to move it to the other side of the counter. The bowl is waiting there, the dry ingredients need mixing. The wet ones ingredients are meant to be mixed by someone with a lot more upper arm strength and enthusiasm.

Toriel is beside him, working the crust into submission. As he stirs the flour and cinnamon, he watches her roll the pin quickly. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows and there’s a bandana on her head, covering the nubs of her horns. Her paw pads are white from flour.

“Knead a hand?” he hums, grin in place beside her.

“Hm? Pfff, no thank you Sans, I dough not think so. But I at yeast appreciate the offer.”

“Both of you stop that right now!”

“Aw Paps, what’s the batter? Muffin’s wrong with a lil bakin’ humor."

“Donut be so upset.”

Papyrus’s cry of outrage has them laughing their ribs out, and Frisk’s entire frame is shaking from it.


	5. and the cake is triple chocolate

**Prompt: Chara tries to celebrate their birthday with chocolate  
**

* * *

 

Chara is on the patio steps, knees pulled up to their chest. Frisk can see the way their fingers clench and unclench on their sleeves. From here, they can’t see Chara’s face, but they figure the grimace is already there and Chara’s hiding it by pushing their face into their knees.

Frisk slips out of the doorframe, and drops next to their sibling, offering the chocolate bar by means of tapping it gently on Chara’s leg. When Chara’s like this, they don’t really want to be touched by people, but this is okay. They’re slow to uncurl their fingers from their sleeve and pull the bar from Frisk’s fingers.

“Thanks,” they say, robotically, with no feeling behind it. When people give you things, you say thank you, even if you don’t feel like it. That’s how it works, they told Frisk once.

They unwrap the bar, and make quick work snapping the rows systematically and biting into the smaller pieces. They don’t offer Frisk a piece–Frisk doesn’t like chocolate, and Chara is a little selfish, especially like this. The chocolate helps. Their shoulders relax.

Frisk doesn’t speak–doesn’t like to–and Chara can’t see their hands, but they feel the question anyway. It’s like a tendril of smoke reaching out hesitantly. Even now, even with their own body and mind and soul, the mental link between them is not completely gone.

_Do you wanna talk about it?_

_“_ Nn. Not really,” Chara vocalizes, folding and unfolding the wrapper in their fingers. “I just don’t like birthdays? I know it’s kind of stupid, but I can’t help feeling like something terrible is going to happen. Emotions are high–people are sensitive, and you _know_ how I get when I’m wound up. I don’t like being in that situation–I like it even less when all these _eyes_ are on me.”

Frisk nods, and even if there’s concern for Chara in their link, there’s also this gentle bubble of pride for them, for being so clear. Leave it to the smart one to analyze their own feelings and locate the source of the problem. This wasn’t a luxury they had when they were 12 years old and stuck in someone else’s head.

“Pbbt,” is their sibling’s response. “Don’t gimme that.” But they don’t say much else, hiding their face into their arms again, this time from embarrassment.

“Mom put a lot of work into this, didn’t she.” It’s not a question. Frisk doesn’t respond, but can feel the guilt and anxiety rising again. “I should just–I should tough it through, right? She worked so hard for me even if I don’t deserve it.”

There’s that self loathing–it touches the surface briefly, before Frisk rests hip to hip with Chara and puts their head on Chara’s shoulder. Nope. Having none of that.

Chara’s hands slip from their sleeves again, and Frisk takes one of them. Frisk kisses the back of it. Chara blows another raspberry.

“Who’s coming?”

Frisk turns slightly, to face Chara, and finally uses their fingers to talk, because Chara is okay with mental connections but also likes their own headspace, and is finally being more respondent.

_Sans, Papyrus, Dad. Undyne and Alphys maybe. Blooky, maybe?_

_“_ Pbbbbt–Mom was okay with Dad coming?”

Frisk nods, just as incredulously. 

“I… _guess_ that’s okay then. I don’t know if I have enough spoons for Pap and Undyne but…”

Chara looks at their fingers, flecked with little white scars, and tries to smile. It’s more convincing, but still a grimace.

“Can you help me tonight? I know–I know it’s stupid.”

But it’s not stupid, and they’re both aware of how easily Mom gets angry at Dad, and how loud Papyrus can be, and how easily Undyne breaks things, and it’s _so_ easy for things to go wrong, and when things go wrong, Chara curls up tight somewhere in their chest where they think that maybe, _maybe_ if they’d done something different things would be better.

There’s no save up here. There’s no retry. Chara knows that and it scares them a lot.

So Frisk nods, and takes Chara’s hand again, and kisses their wrist. Chara sighs.

“Thank you. Love you.”

Chara is something like 14 years old, or maybe 114, it’s hard to tell. They’re so much better than they were at 12. It’s progress. It’s real progress, and that’s at least something to be proud of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my tumblr prompts! Feel free to send me more, and I'll get to them in my spare time!


	6. take a sick day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you have too much in common with this dead kid, you know. it goes beyond the depression—it’s the shitty humor, and the overwhelming urge to cover stress with a smile. it’s instincts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty indulgent thing I wrote last night and posted on tumblr, and a friend suggested I post it on AO3 if I felt up to it. I wish a lot of the time people wrote stuff between Soft Chara and Sans, I see a lot of Geno!Chara and Sans and it wears me out. Both characters have the most obvious in-game hints of depression, though it manifests in different ways for each of them.
> 
> Things this chapter includes:  
> post-pacsifist, not long after reaching the surface; chara has a body; sans, pap, tori and frisk all live in the same house
> 
> mentions of disassociation and over-sensitization, and the fun things that come with depression. small mention of self-harm intrusive thoughts.
> 
> You can see my rambling about Undertale on my blog [here](http://queenburd.tumblr.com/tagged/May-talks-about-undertale).

they are on the roof of this two-story house you and tori and pap all managed to pay for by the skin of your teeth (ha) and the scraps of your gold, their knees pulled tight to their chest, their eyes wide and staring out into the darkening sky. when frisk asked you to talk to the kid, you’d felt everything in your soul protest.

it’s not because you don’t like the kid. you’ve had your differences—you’ve seen them laugh out sobs and smile as wide as they can to cover up the fact that it hurt that you didn’t trust them. you’ve had these talks, talks about time and anchors and flowers and other things that make your skull ache unpleasantly. you don’t dislike chara.

it’s just that—

today’s not doing you any favors either. today you stayed in bed till one and when you finally got up, the room spun and your first thought was  _are we going back I don’t wanna go back_ before your vision steadied again.

today papyrus’s voice was almost too loud, and every word made your head ring like it wanted to fall off. today you stared at your food and thought _what’s the point_ and honestly, you don’t really think you can handle being the comfort buddy for someone just as sick as you, if not worse off.

you go anyway. the kid asked you to. you never knew how to say no to frisk.

you drop next to chara because it feels like gravity’s too heavy, so you drop hard, and don’t want to get up. your sockets hurt, like keeping them open is overstimulation. hell, it probably is, so you let them close. you try to relax the tension in your shoulder blades that’s there for no reason, and breathe.

“how’s your head, kid?”

chara’s quiet, like they’re thinking about the answer, before they respond, in a dull voice, “far away. really far away.”

“ok.”

disassociation, today, then. that’s fine, usually there’s nothing to do other than wait it out, and that makes it easier for you. you don’t have to do much. this is better than their bad spells where they wanna scratch their skin off. you never really know what to do during those times.

“sans?”

“hm,” you respond, your sockets still shut.

“can i lean on you. s’okay if you don’t want contact.”

you think, even though that’s hard, that chara’s unnaturally perceptive about people they care about, even when their head is far away. they’re a lot better than they seem to give themself credit for.

“tell ya what. we can lean on each other.”

you can feel the kid edge towards you, and press their head to your collarbone. that can’t be comfortable, but their breathing is steady and relaxed. you lean your cheekbone against the top of their head. their hair is soft, softer than frisk’s.

it’s grounding, you think. not by much, but it’s at least a steady contact that doesn’t make you feel overloaded. your back relaxes, and shifts, to take on the new weight on your side.

you both wait for them to slowly return to themself. you guess it’s kind of ironic, that today your head literally won’t stop focusing on tiny things and that theirs refuses to fully function. usually, it’s the other way around.

depression’s a bitch. it manifests in stupid ways.

you have too much in common with this dead kid, you know. it goes beyond the depression—it’s the shitty humor, and the overwhelming urge to cover stress with a smile. it’s instincts.

you remember, at one point, the way it made your spine prickle when frisk mentioned it—suggested any similarity between you and the weird kid that showed up at the door one morning, their so-called best friend. a dead kid tori picked up and cried over quickly, that pap was so easy to accept.

you weren’t that easy, you weren’t that open. of course it got under your skin (ha) when frisk told you that chara was a lot like you.

but you’re an impartial judge, you like to think, and chara’s puns are funny.

and chara understands this. chara understands every aspect of existential exhaustion.

they’re stronger than you. pure determination, manifested in stubbornness. they keep going. they pull you with them. sometimes, it feels like you don’t have a choice but to move forward with them.

it’s an unspoken promise they made to you:

“someday,” chara says, softly, still pressed to your side, “we’re going to be okay. we’ll remember how to want to live again.”

you open your sockets and look down at them. the skin under their eyes is wet. they look tired, but like themself.

“yeah,” you say, because you want to hope tomorrow will be better, that tomorrow you’ll feel like your bones aren’t going to come loose.

they finally pull themself off you and gently lie down on the rooftop, their eyes shut, their breath slow.

when frisk comes up to the roof with blankets, you have lied down beside chara, and are breathing with them. the stars are out. the texture of the blanket doesn’t make your bones prickle.

the thought of being better slowly fills you with determination.

_fin._


	7. direct your destruction someplace else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't set this house on fire, please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's lots of speculation that if Asriel likes Papyrus for his gentle nature, Chara would look up to Undyne for her aggressive affection and sense of justice. Here's a very short thing.

Their fist comes down hard onto the board, spattering red onto every surface–their sweater takes the brunt of it. Undyne’s smile is wide, sharp, terrible. Chara stares at their fist, and uncurls their fingers.

Tomato juice trickles down to their wrist and drips onto the cutting board. They inhale. Exhale.

_Smells like sauce._

“Now you’re gettin’ it, kid!”

Undyne sets another tomato in front of them. They search her fingers for tension–they sense the air for magic.

There’s no anger? No aggression towards them. No fear. Despite their violent tendencies, despite their being human, _despite everything it’s still–_

Inhale. Exhale. 

_The tomato trembles under Undyne’s glare._

“No wimpiness about you! Yanno, I was worried you’d be all soft like Frisk, but you’re super tough!”

Her smile is nice, Chara thinks. Even if it’s still a little scary, it’s not like theirs. It’s real.

“But not as tough as _me!_ Let me show you how it’s _done!”_

Also, they are really glad this is happening at Undyne’s place and not Mom’s because Mom would kill them for the mess. The sweater may end up beyond saving.


	8. dog's best friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DOGGO: Has his own seeing eye dog.

Endogeny bounds towards Doggo, their orifice dripping in enthusiasm. In his vision, they’re always present, always trembling and nudging closer. They like his dog treats. He thinks the scent soothes them? 

He presses his nose into their soft side, and pets them sort of slowly. Petting’s still… kind of new to him–dogs petting other dogs? Baffling.

Endogeny vibrates, content, and he thinks, it’s just like nothing’s changed. It’s just like it was before, when his older brother would pick him up like he was a tiny pup and laugh. The sound would vibrate through the both of them and he would see the way his brother’s eyes would crinkle. The smell of treats would cling to Doggo’s clothes for days after, even after his brother fell down.

His brother fell down, and Dogamy’s dad fell down, and Greater and Lesser Dogs’ baby sibling fell down, but here they are, barking distantly in his ear and nuzzling the nape of his neck, their eyes crinkled in joy.

Despite everything, it’s still them.


	9. the highest form of flattery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A human holiday approaches--the children pick their costumes.

He wakes up from his mid-morning nap on the couch as the door opens, letting in a gust of cool air and overbearing children. Toriel makes little attempt to corral them, her arms full of grocery bags that very nearly topple.

“Sans, dear, could I use some assistance?”

He’s slow, he’s too slow, he’s all fog-addled, but he finally makes it to his feet and to the door, clearing his throat. “Didn’t know you had so much _baggage_ , Tori. S’okay though, I’ll get the rest.”

She gives a short laugh and allows him past her, to the car, and they make quick work. The kids have already disappeared to their rooms, unhelpful as ever. 

“Didn’t catch you guys leave this morning,” he mentions to her as they restock the kitchen together. “Did you hit all the stops?”

Toriel smiles (god, what a nice smile) as she slips the bottle of vinegar to the top shelf of the cabinet by the sink. “We finally managed to find the last of the materials for their Hallow’s Eve costumes! Asriel’s still needs sewing, but we stopped at the Halloween costume store and it was _havok_.”

“This late into the season? No kidding.”

“Indeed–I’m very glad Frisk and Chara’s are simple enough to piece together.”

“Right.” Has he been inattentive? No, no, they had gone out of their way to keep their costumes a secret, for one reason or other. He’d honestly been a little too afraid to ask, and, well, he’d learn the secret eventually. The candy-holiday’s just around the corner.

He’s putting the bag of flour away when Frisk reappears at the kitchen entrance and asks him to join them–there’s little choice in the matter, he learns, when their fingers lock around his wrist and pull him upstairs.

“Okay, ya got me where ya want me,” he finally says at the doorway to their room, pulling his hands up in surrender. “What’s up?”

 _It’s a surprise_ , they respond. _Stay here._

They slip into the bedroom and close the door before he can respond, and maybe that’s for the best? Beyond the door, he can hear Chara’s whispering to Frisk. He can’t make out the words, and it’s rude to eavesdrop, but he can hear the anxiety laced in their voice. Hoo boy, this better not be another Chara surprise, he’s quite frankly worn out by those.

“Uh, kids? I’m still out here. Do I need to start practicing knock knock jokes?”

He swears he hears a sort of wet giggle from beyond the door, before it slips open a crack. Chara’s deep red eye peeks out at him–the rest of their face is covered? It’s hard to tell from here. They pull the door open, staying behind it, so Sans focuses on Frisk instead, who is–

“Oh my god????”

There’s a red scarf around their neck, a pair of bright blue shorts over their black tights. They’re wearing what seems to be armor over their torso. They have bright red gloves on.

It’s Papyrus. They’re dressed up as Papyrus for Halloween.

Sans starts to laugh–wheeze, more like. It’s astounding, it’s caught him completely off guard, and he takes a minute to stagger over to the kid and hug them tight. “Imitation is the highest form of flattery, huh kiddo?”

Frisk seems very proud of themself, if the determined smile is anything to go by.

“It really suits them, right?” 

Chara’s voice is quiet behind them, and he finally turns, an arm over his kid’s shoulder, still laughing. His laughter dies slowly, as Chara rubs their arm through the blue hoodie that’s just too big for them. They look down at their sneakers sheepishly, arms crossing over the ribcage print shirt. There’s a bandana around their neck–it’s got a toothy smile on it.

The hoodie’s just a tad too dark–navy instead of blue–and the sweats aren’t shorts, but. But.

_It’s you!_

He looks at his two kids, dressed up as him and his brother, and feels something in his soul swell. It’s full of love.

He’s full of love.

“That’s a good lookin’ hoodie, kiddo. I gotta borrow it sometime, when mine’s in the wash.”

His kid’s cheeks are flushed, shy and desperate for approval. “Yeah? It’s _really_ comfy, I can see why you like these things.”

Frisk is smiling so wide, even as Chara continues, “It was Frisk’s idea!”

 _Liar!_ they attempt to reply, though they struggle through the gloves. Chara giggles behind their hands as their sibling pulls them off. _You suggested it, nerd!_

“False!! I suggested _you_ be Sans and _I_ be Papyrus–you’re quieter, so you wouldn’t have to worry about shouting _I am the great Papyrus_  all the time!”

Sans is laughing, his hand pressed to his brow. “T–Does Tori know about this?”

The spat’s forgotten, the pair nod. “She… told me I tell more puns anyway,” Chara says, sort of defeated. “Azzy’s doing his own thing? His dorky God of Hyperdeath costume, he’s making it from scratch, but this seemed…. easy. And fun.”

He holds up a finger, and stands straight as he can. “Okay. If you’re gonna be me, you gotta do it right.”

“Uh?”

“Gimme your best knock knock joke, kid.”

Chara’s eyes go round and wide–deer in headlights, on the spot. He almost worries, for a second, that they’re going to stumble on this, before–

“Okay. Knock knock.”

He attempts a straight face. “Who’s there.”

They’re trying not to giggle. He sees something in their expression, like they’re pulling a large prank.

“Dishes.”

_Kid._

“Dishes who.” He can’t do it, he can’t hold the face. He’s smiling too wide. He’s so proud.

“Dishes a terrible joke, and you totally approve. I’m the best Sans to ever be a Sans.”

And yanno, they’re not wrong.


	10. and now there's photo evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of coffee, leftover pizza, oversized sweaters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell who my faves are? I can't tell who my faves are.

“Are you taking a picture? Text it to me!!”

Frisk puts a finger to their lips, a _shh_ motion as Papyrus hovers over their shoulder, grinning wide at the screen of their phone. Across from them, in the light of the television, Chara’s eyelids flutter softly. The blue hoodie looks warm, and soft. They look safe, pressed up to Sans’ side, the pair of them asleep against the couch. 

The coffee table is littered with crap food (comfort food, Frisk had asked for, for movie night), the remains of pizza crusts dropped back into the open box. Sans’ mug is not on a coaster–Mom’s going to throw a fit if there are any coffee rings, yikes.

But this is more important, this is the _most_ important thing. There’s a bony arm around Chara’s shoulders, allowing them to lean into their napping buddy freely. Sans is snoring softly.

Frisk makes a mass text and hits _send._

_[txt from: Alphys] oh my god??????? making this my new phone background omg_

_[txt from: Undyne] WHAT IS HAPPENING AT THIS MOVIE NIGHT THAT I AM MISSING, THIS IS CREEPY_

_[txt from: Mom] how cute!!!!_

_[txt from: Alphys] dark movie nights show me the forbidden Chara-Sans snuggles lmao_

Later, when the pair wake, the crime will go undiscovered until Papyrus shows Sans his new locked phone screen. There will be screams. A mass crime spree will begin in an attempt to destroy all the evidence.

For now, there is quiet, two people asleep, and the gentle _click_ of a phone camera.


	11. leave your judgement in the hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hate, you hate, you hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was requested Chara and Judgement!Sans in everyday post GenoPacifist Everybody Lives setting. Wrote this a while ago, and meant to go back and edit it a bit, but it's been over a month and it's not happening. Here you go.
> 
> (As a note: A lot of people can successfully write Player as Antagonist/Character. I'm not one of them, I feel like Player as Character defeats Post-Pacifist fics where Frisk decides to not reset. It leaves a sense of fear that happiness can end at any second. I ain't in for it. Sorry!)

How do you hate a child you don’t know?

Like this:

For as long as you can remember (and maybe that’s not long at all) your notes say _danger, danger, danger_. They tell you vague things you want to slap yourself silly for, like to avoid flowers and to not trust little kids, and it scares you when a kid stumbles out of the big door that you’ve never seen open (not in this life) and stiffens at your words, like–

They are afraid of you, you realize. They are afraid that you’ll hurt them, even when you show them it’s all a big joke. They’re afraid.

You’re no artist but the notes paint you a bad picture, and the way the child tenses under your stare makes it worse. Not a trace of LOVE in their soul, not a mote of dust on their skin, but they act like they’ve done terrible things and are awaiting judgment.

You give them judgement. They’re clean.

You do not trust.

You do not trust the way your notes are overlapping and crossed out–kind things on top of angry words on top of hope. Despair. Death. 

Lines criss-cross the words. There’s a page devoted to tally-marks. It’s thankfully short, but it’s still too many.

How can you even hope, anymore?

Even when there’s sunlight on your skull and warmth seeping into your clothes, you don’t dare, not yet. You don’t trust this happy ending, and you don’t trust the child that knocks on your best friend’s door one warm morning, their eyes downcast even as Frisk pulls them hard into their chest.

You see them, and you _hate._ You _hate_ the way they curl up when they’re around Papyrus, the way their fingers pull into fists. You _hate_  how Frisk clings to them and how their smile never reaches their eyes ( _ugly eyes, the color of a soul too strong_ ). You _hate–_

You hate the uncertainty. You hate the way your gut clenches with the thought that they know something you don’t (and you _know_ they know, because why do they bite their nails when you sit across from them, why do they act so undeserving of their own mother’s kindness?)

You hate. You didn’t know you had the energy to do that anymore.

You think they hate you too. Hell–if they did what you think they did, and you did what you _know_ you would do, they have every reason to hate you. You _fought_ them to your last breath, or you would have, if you had to.

And you think you had to.

But–

There’s not a trace of LOVE in them, even when their body radiates the urge to FIGHT, the intent to DEFEND. You think maybe you hate that the most–they have no crime on their soul. It makes you hate them, because it makes you doubt yourself.

You don’t tell anyone–you hide it like you hide everything else. You don’t suffer Toriel’s wrath, you don’t let Papyrus question anything. You don’t tell Undyne that maybe, based off your gut, you’re harboring something _foul_ , _evil_ , _unholy._

Frisk knows anyway. You don’t know why they know. It makes you want to hate _them_ , too. But you don’t, because it’s Frisk. It’s too hard to hate Frisk. It’s _so_ much easier to hate Chara.

You hate them for months, you’d hate them for years, you’d hate them for the rest of your life, if your kid wasn’t so desperate for them to belong to you too. You want to keep hating them, you don’t want to know the whys and the whats that your kid is so intent to tell you. You don’t want to hate Frisk.

They won’t let you take all that blame and pin it on Chara. They refuse.

It’s a mess–it’s the world’s biggest mess. Two anomalies stitched into one skin and soul, but Frisk was so angry when they fell. Two ugly kids who fed off each other’s bitterness and hurt for so long, but it was _Frisk_  who could have stopped it at any point. It was _Frisk_ who took the way Chara saw danger at every turn as fact.

Don’t trust little kids, your notes say. Your ribs hurt. You want to let your hate boil and bubble at the surface. You swallow it, hold it behind your teeth.

Chara’s the consequence for Frisk’s actions. Chara took their angry game away from them. Chara refused to let them have the satisfaction they desired–the final kills, the chance to start clean. Chara refused.

_You are not above consequences, they told me. You caused this. You think you can just take it back? Is this a game?_

How do you hate a child you don’t know? How do you excuse your poisonous thoughts, how do you excuse your sudden paranoia when the child’s eyes go glassy?

Like this:

You hate Chara, because they are a better Judge than you.


	12. love enough to fill the underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsters are weird.  
> Even though they barely know you…  
> It feels like they all really love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set a period of time after the first child falls into the Underground.

Chara’s eyes are full of hope, Asgore tells his wife one evening, not too long after the fallen child is accepted into the family. They are so sad, but their eyes shine with some strong spirit, some unbroken power. A determination to see a better future, he thinks.

Toriel thinks of the child, who bites their knuckles when they fear they’ve upset her, who whispers that they will be very good, they promise. She sips her tea thoughtfully, and does not tell Asgore how their new child trembles a bit before taking his paws. She makes no comment on how Chara will not call him father yet. He knows.

But she agrees that the child they attempt to raise is not the same child that fell. This one hesitantly tells her little jokes, and reads quietly with her in the mornings, and pets every dog they see. Hesitant to be loved, and yet so ready to give their own heart to Asriel—yes, this is not the same child who stuck their fingers into the fireplace and hid under their bed after Asgore had learned they had dropped and broken a set of his teacups.

(It wasn’t their fault, not really—the child had been trying to serve them all, as a surprise, as a thank you, but they were still so weak from their fall that the weight had been too much. Asgore had been a touch upset, but never angry—but the way his voice boomed through the halls of the castle had had the poor thing willing to run.)

The child is loved by everyone so sincerely—it is incredible, how no monster holds bitterness towards them for being human. Instead, when their king tells them that this family (this bond) is the future of humans and monsters, the rejoicing that fills the kingdom lasts for weeks. When Chara creeps out of the castle (for unpleasant reasons Toriel and her husband know, but do not dare to voice) someone new always finds them, and brings them home. And always, they adore Chara like they are family.

And Chara, for all their self-loathing and panicked, violent outbursts, loves them back. They pet Temmie for hours—they hug Vulkin as tight as they can to show Vulkin how important the little monster is. They show Madjick they simple sleight of hand tricks from the surface. They hum with Knight Knight.

They love.

That night when she goes to tuck her children in, she finds Asriel trying to convince Chara to adopt one of his plushes. “It’s okay,” he tells them, “I don’t mind, honest!”

Chara gnaws their lower lip harshly, and looks up to Toriel for a distraction or change of subject. “We’re supposed to go to sleep now, Asriel,” they say, pushing him off the edge of their bed so they can creep under the sheets. Asriel pouts, but (childish, adorable boy) presses his nose to the fringe of Chara’s hairline and stubbornly sets the light Boss Monster plush by their head.

“There,” he says, satisfied as he crosses the room. “Now you _have_ to sleep with it tonight, or else you’ll have to crawl over me to put it back. And I’ll wake up!”

Chara looks at Asriel crawling into his own bed, looks straight at Toriel from their pillow, and says dryly. “You snore like Asgore. If you can sleep through that, you can sleep through anything.” But, slowly, Toriel watches them pull the plush under their covers, presumably to their chest.

Tories finds herself smiling as she approaches her son’s bed and pulls his covers up to his chin. She tickles him there, and he giggles loudly, squirming in his bed. “Mooooom doooooon’t!!! Stooop!!!!”

“Oh? Do not stop? Alright, I don’t think I will stop!” She tickles the space where his ears flop against the bed, and he laughs, his feet kicking the sheets. She can feel Chara’s eyes on her, as she laughs with Asriel, and she hopes the energy and light and love leak into them from here.

She finally kisses Asriel, on the cheek, rubbing the fur there softly. “Goodnight, my son. I love you very much.”

Asriel, out of breath and pink in the cheeks, smiles back, his small paw on her own. “I love you too, mom.”

When Toriel approaches Chara’s bed, she does not tickle them until they lose their breath. She knows the way such simple acts of affection can make them freeze—she’s seen the way their eyes gloss over to be somewhere else entirely, someplace less kind. Instead, she rests on the edge of their bed and offers her paw by their head for them to reach for.

They take it, and look up at her. Their eyes are large on their face—before, a sign of malnutrition. Now, it’s just become a part of their appearance; large, intense and captivating eyes that glitter in the lamplight. She smiles at them, and looks now, for the hope Asgore claims to see.

They hesitantly smile back, and she catches it. It’s the crinkle of their lids, the way their brow relaxes fully.

“May I?” Tories asks, and they nod, closing their eyes as Toriel leans in to kiss their temple softly. She holds their hand, and they are still smiling as she leans back.

“I love you very much Chara. Good night.”

Chara’s thin fingers tighten around her own for just a moment, and she thinks it is their way of telling her they love her too.


	13. red, black, gold.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underfell. Regrets, anger, the defining of a SOUL, and a golden tooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the concept of Underfell a lot, and have a lot of thoughts on it. They include the idea that everyone does what they do out of a place of fear, and the need to protect themself and their loved ones. LV is a powerful thing that can make bad things seem easy to do, if you're doing them in the name of defending the ones you love.
> 
> And Papyrus needs to protect his 1 HP brother. All that LV helps, but it keeps him from telling his brother he loves him.

The glint of the golden tooth always makes his jaw tight. It shouldn’t–the cause was years ago–but when it catches the light, Papyrus remembers just why he’s become the person he is today.

_The monster is half dust not moments after the fact, but the sounds Sans is making have Papyrus’s SOUL twisting in terror. How bad is the damage?_

He glares at the way his brother and the human overlap each other in front of him, in some bizarre attempt to protect the other. Like his brother needs defending from him. Like his brother can stop him.

_The tooth is gone, dust. It can’t be healed if it’s missing altogether. Sans stays in his room, and it’s for the best, because the gap in his teeth reminds Papyrus that it’s his fault. He was too slow._

His brother’s face is a scowl. Papyrus wants to push him aside, make him listen, for once in his life would he listen? He’s going to get himself killed, and then what would Papyrus do? 

He flicks his fingers. Ping. The human falls to their knees. The bones surge forward.

_It takes more work than he’s willing to admit to anyone. Being in the Guard pays well, but this is something else altogether. He goes all the way to Hotland with an exorbitant amount of gold and comes back with the melted remains. He finds Sans asleep. He helps him numb the pain before he uses what scraps of healing magic he has to get the tooth to hold into his jawline._

Sans pushes in between the bones and the human, and–

_He tells himself, never again. He will never be too slow again. He will never put Sans’s life so at risk again, by being_ **_too slow_.**

The bones dissipate. 

_Never again._


	14. slow going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it’s just hard to get out of bed.

They’re a lump in the sheets.

Toriel asks him, briefly, to go check on them; they haven’t come down to breakfast. So he makes his way up the stairs and creaks open the door, and even under the comforter, he can see the tautness in their form. It feels like forever before they pull it away from their face. A wide eye finds him approaching. He can’t see their mouth.

“Hey, kiddo. Tori says you haven’t gotten up yet. Gonna do that today?”

They don’t respond—seems like their tongue’s gone lead in their mouth. They can’t even pull their fingers out from under the sheets to sign.

“That’s fine. Here, hand.”

This is a kind of pattern with them. Sometimes, it’s just hard to get out of bed. There are lots of reasons why, reasons you sometimes can’t voice. So they have a code, to make it easy.

He holds out his bony hand, palm up, and slowly, theirs creeps out to take it. They press their thumb to the center of his palm and, shakily, trace an A into his carpals.

A for anxiety. Muscle stiffening, throat tightening anxiety.

“I’ll let your mom know. You want us to bring up some food?”

Their head gives a swift, dizzying shake from beneath the ball of their comforter. Their hand retreats back to their bed.

“Okay. Gonna get you some water, though. Tea, if you’re up for it.”

They can’t speak not right now, but he can see in how their body relaxes even marginally that they’re grateful.

“Shower might help, if you feel up to getting up sometime. I’ll let Paps know you’re staying in. Take it easy.”

He presses his hand to the side of their head, for a moment, a comfortable pressure, and then releases. He makes sure the shades let in only a little light, makes sure their phone is within reach, and leaves the door open just a crack.

Slow going.


	15. next time we're watching a comedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's movie night's theme: Thrillers. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Horror movies. Draw your own conclusions as to whether this follows a geno-route or is just a severe response to the over-all violence ingame.

You’d think, Undyne thinks to herself, that these tough kids who have braved soul removal and death in the face would have no problem at all with a dumb thriller. Papyrus sure has no problem with it, and if Undyne ever jumps in her seat at all, he’s smart enough to make no comment on it.

But every time the murderer in the movie raises the knife to glint in the stark light, Chara flinches and covers their eyes, shoulders hunched to their ears. Frisk, on their part, is curled against Chara’s side, mouth moving silently. It’s not even _funny_ –and all the lights are on.

Undyne pauses the movie in the midst of screaming. “Looks like movie night was a bust, ya big chickens.”

The children don’t uncurl. Sans, on the other end of the couch, is looking at them hard with no pretense about it. Even when it isn’t directed at her, she can’t help but wince. Sheesh. She doesn’t even _want_ to know what’s going on there.

Papyrus turns from where he’s sitting at the foot of the couch to look at the kids, his smile diminished in concern.

“Humans?”

Chara’s shoulders hunch even higher. He persists.

“It was just a movie, Chara! It wasn’t real, I promise!”

Nobody quite relaxes. Undyne internally groans and straightens from where she’s leaning on the back of the couch. She knows the drill. Blankets and chocolate.

As she enters the kitchen, she can still hear her best friend comforting the kids.

“Even if the scene looks really bad, everyone is okay! Here, hand me your phone–I’ll show you what the actors are doing now! They’re alive and well and probably making so much money over this…. _terrible_ movie!”

When she returns, Papyrus has got the kids bundled on his lap on the floor and is scrolling through his phone, showing the children photos of the actors. And Mettaton. Man, Mettaton starred in a horror movie? Gross.

Undyne hands him the blanket, and glances at Sans again. He’s still got an eye on the kids, but his stare doesn’t feel like a glare anymore.

“Man, that movie was bad anyway. I need a palette cleanser. Any requests?”

Papyrus is wrapping the blanket around the kids, and Frisk looks deep in thought before they sign.

_Monsters Inc._

_“Again?_ Really?”

A firm nod. Undyne rolls her eye. 

“Alright, fine. But no Ralph jokes this time, _funny boy.”_ This is directed at the loafer on her couch, who’s since reclined along it now that it's been freed up.

“Or you’ll go purple with rage?”

“NGAAH. Get wreckt, ya loaf!”

She hops over the back of the couch, fully prepared to body slam Sans–he dodges by rolling onto the carpet beside his brother with a snort. Papyrus rolls his eyes. Frisk is shaking with laughter. Undyne groans good-naturedly and stretches along her new domain. She likes to think Chara is smiling into Pap’s shoulder.

There’s hope for tonight yet.


	16. you've got no one to blame but yourself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toriel makes a mistake, and her child does a violence. Post-pacifist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was asked "what would happen if Chara was bullied" and I was like "violence? violence would happen. idk what you expected"
> 
> lots of implied past negative experiences, but nothing outright mentioned here.

Frisk’s fingers are swift, almost unreadable at how quickly they motion at their sibling, trying to get them to look. Look away from their bruised knuckles, stop picking the skin of their wrists. 

Nothing works. Toriel watches it from her chair beside them in the hall outside the school office, and sighs.

She feels she should have expected this. Chara’s anxiety at returning to school had seemed to fill the entire house, but she had hoped it was a normal anxiety of a new school. She had hoped.

She should have known better. Deep in her gut, under the disappointment at her child, she feels the guilt.

Chara has always been wary of humans. She should have done something differently, shouldn’t she have? She should have prevented this. She should have–

“I’m sorry,” Chara whispers, not looking up at her. They stare at their fingers, curling and uncurling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Unexpectedly, Frisk seems to fill with rage on the other side of their sibling. _It wasn’t your fault!_ they respond, fingers taut. _He hit you first!_ They gesture to the skin beside Chara’s eye, an ugly darkening color Toriel has not yet managed to heal. Chara would not allow her to touch them.

But all Chara can manage in response is “I’m sorry.”

And their mother remembers the way they would curl tight at a loud noise and apologize in earnest, and she thinks, she should be the one to apologize.

She should never have let anyone lay a hand on her own child.


End file.
